Текст песни Ярослав Смеляков - Поэты

I'm not about those golden-headed
singers of the fatherland,
that drank from the cup of glory
and entered the anthology.

And not about those half-noticeable
witnesses of past years
what is still on the sheets of newspaper
left their weak mark.

I want to say, at least succinctly,
about those that, contrary to their care,
and left without typing
single line.

In villages and on the stop
they are in the midst of a noisy crowd -
wrote on letterhead
his poems.

Over the student’s notebook
in the desire for glory and goodness
sighing sadly and sweetly
they sat until morning.

Obscure designs greatness
their own souls burned,
but through the congestion of tongue-tied
could not get through to people.

Hurry poems
they read with pathos
half-hidden smiles
their colleagues and relatives.

Ah, how many of them passed around the world
from those to the present,
such unrecognized poets
and unheard names!

All the poor brothers that to the descendants
didn’t pave the way
I consider it a duty, albeit quietly,
but gratefully remember.

After all, the museums of Pushkin and Blok,
finding a basement or attic,
they were inadvertently visited,
they ran to them just like that.

Mysteriously touching their foreheads
given two minutes to them
and smiling back
back to his rulers